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Last night I got kicked in the face by a pole dancer...

PARIS

Hey everyone!

I'm sorry I haven't been posting lately - my computer screen died and I couldn't. Also I just didn't want to. Anyway, in recent history of my time in Europe, I went to Paris; thaaaaaa city of lightses... and cigarette butts; there are probably more cigarette butts on the ground than blades of grass. However if you look up away from the ashy sidewalks, you will likely lose your breath.

Aside from the nasty ass ground, Paris is beautiful; the architecture is finely detailed, ancient and full of character. It has a sort of fake-ness to it; as though it's a movie set. Even the food looks like a stage prop.

The Eiffel Tower is stunning - for me it was literally stunning. Looking up at all that iron left my mouth agape and my heart beating as though I just downed a can of redbull spiked with PCP. I couldn't believe I was actually seeing it. To keep with Parisian life style (or so I have gathered from television), Trish and I popped a seat in front of the majestic, pahllic tower and downed a bottle of wine in less than 30 minutes... then we passed out beneath it. If self-induced comas were ever a joyful experience, this was it.

After we awoke from a minor brown-out, we got on the move for food with our friends Kelsey and Abdullah. We found a strange little place in which we got more wine and great meat. We each had a different innocent animal - lamb, beef, chicken, and duck. It was rull good. I will criticize it for the amount of butter - there may have been more butter than actual food on our plates. But seeing as how our first few hours in Paris involved passing out drunk in front of the Eiffel Tower, we figured we might as well go all the way and not do anything remotely healthy at all.

So OBviously we set out for more booze after dinner! And ice-cream! We met up with a couple of friends on a spot overlooking the entire city. Paris. Is. Big. It was like looking out into an ocean - no end of the lights until the horizon. Shortly below us young Parisians got sloshed and danced to the Mortal Kombat Theme Song. There was also broken glass everywhere and people strewn all up and down the steps leading to what looked like a really important building for politics or stem-cell research or something. This place was like a free-for-all.

After we grew tired of seeing the same idiot walking on his hands while his fellow street-performers tried jeering the crowd to respond as though it was the first time they'd ever seen a person upside-down, we went to an outside cafe to enjoy the buzzing atmosphere of Montmartre. Here, my friends ordered ice cream and pie and I got a highly alcoholic drink with a glow-stick in it. What a way to end an awesome day.

The next day exists as somewhat of a blur in my memory. It was very hot and Trish and I were ultimately just waiting to get on the train home. The city is beautiful, but the people are no match for the friendly Irish. Ireland looked kind of like a dump in some spots but I remember wanting to stay. Paris did not have the same effect; I was informed by a colleague that Paris is known to be one of the most xenophobic locations in the world. Not everyone was rude, but if I mis-pronounced one syllable in brief attempts to speak the language, I wouldn't even get a response. It may have been the nervous farting but I've mastered the art of evasive flatulence so I seriously doubt that's what put them off.

Not everyone was rude; I actually met a very nice woman who sold me mustard with a smile despite the fact she had been awake since 4 am preparing for the market. Regardless, I think I've been persuaded to learn Spanish. It's wiser to do that in America anyway but this was the final little nudge. Funny enough, the nicest people we met in Paris were American. The buildings of a city may be beautiful but at its heart is its culture. The 48 hours we spent in Paris were gorgeous, but they were also a little cold; Personally, I feel as though I connected with the land more than the people.

That's all for now folks, till next time!

Sam

Complain and You Shall Recieve

Okay, I was a little harsh on my internship in the last post. Yes, it was boring the first week, yes, I was basically on the same rung as a 16 year-old high school student, and yes I had horrible visions of an adult life of monotony after graduation. But things are getting enjoyable. All it took was a little bitching and the universe changed its ways. Let's hope I haven't just re-jinxed myself.

Yesterday I helped out with a film shoot for a BBC documentary on Raphael's tapestries. Raphael was made a series of huge paintings for the Vatican, all depicting biblical stories of St. Peter and St. Paul. The reason the cartoons were made was so the picture could be transferred to a tapestry. In the latest issue of V&A Magazine, Jan Dally wrote, "The cartoons (original paintings) were cut into strips about a meter wide and placed under the warp threads as a template for the weavers." How insane is that? One of the tapestries is placed in the museum directly across the cartoon it came from. In about three months, four tapestries will be shipped from the Vatican to the V&A and be reunited with one another for the first time in 500 years.

To even be a small part of producing this documentary was surreal. I've always dreamed of being on set during a shoot and Cultureshock gave me that opportunity. The director even asked me to be in some of the stills! Five seconds of fame well spent.

In addition to helping people document a historic event, I'm really enjoying my time in the office. The staff is very supportive, and my tasks are slowly evolving and expanding. I'm still doing the remedial stuff, but I've tasted productivity while doing it. If I were being paid it'd be near perfect (total perfection would require my friends and family to move here too) as perfect as an internship can be that is. After I left work today, my workaholic mind imagined them offering me a job. Then I thought of how people in the UK hate the American students coming over here and taking their sweet internships away.

England apparently is having trouble with employment, kind of like the US. Is that a, wow-how-long-have-you-been-under-that-rock, kind of thing to say? News is hard to keep up on when your main concerns involve your hair, clothes and different ways to make a ham sandwich. Vanity, thy name is Samuel.

I'm starting to catch an England bug. It's worrisome; I don't get allergies, gay men and women are allowed to marry, no one gets harassed for not wearing what everyone else is wearing, football is football, there's food from seven different countries on every street, and most importantly, the Imax theatres here are showing Twilight next weekend. Damnit family, stop being terrific. ;)

People aren't the same wherever you go. Even the English, who speak the same language as me, are significantly different from the people back home. This didn't shine through at first, but after a little time the differences became clear.

I have also decided that Australian accents are a combination of American and English ones. I came upon this revelation after I used one when answering the phone today at work. It was magical. England is moderately sized and close to many other countries; this means many accents, which means that I can get away with choosing a different one every time I talk to a stranger that will probably never see me again after this summer. This is extremely thrilling.

G'day and G'noight,

Sam

First Week of the Internship

My first week at Cultureshock Media is done, wow. It feels weird to say the least. Weird because it's an actual office job like the kind you see in movies where the main character loses his mind because the beige wallpaper starts speaking Japanese to him. Honestly, if this job gets any more dull I think I might start talking to the walls. The company is really cool and my co-workers are great people, or at least I think they are (I don't talk to anyone 80% of the time), but my job, so to speak is more or less remedial tasks that a sloth could do.

My responsibilities include reviewing the profiles of our clients for two of our websites - funkyvenues.com and funkyweddingvenues.com, paraphrasing newsletters, posting offers from clients, and managing the sites' facebook and twitter accounts. It's amazing I haven't passed out into the computer screen yet. When I'm given a small assignment I spring out of my coma and get right to it. I'm actually surprised at how efficient I am. Usually when I first do something my mentors suspect I have ADD and perhaps a learning disability, but here I barely get distracted.

I think it's easier to get distracted at school because a lot of it is bullshit that the administration wants you to pay for. There. I said it, higher education is turning into/is a money trap. Why do I need to be told by more than one professor who invented the fucking printing press? Whatever, I digress. Back to Cultureshock.

Cultureshock is a publishing, production and content providing company that works with all platforms of arts media; books, film, ads, tv, magazines, you name it, they probably do the odd jobs to help iron out the kinks of getting it together. We're like a bridge or a portal if you will, into a world where dreams and ideas come to fruition. It sounds awesome, and I'm sure it is if you actually work there, but I'm just a six-week intern whose relationship with these people is transient, as I will be back on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean in less than two months.

I hope I can work with my co-workers soon, it gets a little lonely and psycho-y when I have only my own brain to silently communicate with (I REALLY hope I haven't done that thing where I think I'm thinking my thoughts but am in fact, saying them out loud with an unsettling glaze cast over my eyes). I know these people are fun, and they all seem to have at least a personal interest in fashionable clothing which is damn-well near good enough for me. But the metaphorical walls of work ethic are separating me from them. Is this too much to ask for? Are they content in their own space? Are their jobs as boring as mine?? Oh shit. Please tell me adult life isn't like this.

Needless to say, my less than thrilling internship, despite the obvious cool-ness of my co-workers, has me worrying. I really don't want a job that confines me to an office chair all day. I'll go insane. Whether I actually have ADD is unclear (I actually don't remember the test results from when I was younger) but I definitely have muscular ADD (don't wiki that, I just invented it) and can't be still for a prolonged period of time. It's like restless leg syndrome but with every part of my body... even my eyelids. Hopefully I'll be given more responsibility soon. I have faith that this company is a fun place to work; maybe they just needed to see how well I faired in the first week.

My fellow intern is a 16 year-old girl named Sophie... upon meeting her I thought, "Wow, if they're giving me the same tasks as a toddler, they must have been really impressed with my resume." Then I got competitive and wanted to show her the throw-down. I imagined my self rolling up my sleeves, towering over her and saying, "YA GOIN DOWN FOOOL!" But then I remembered, "Wait... I'm an adult." You live to impede the self-esteem of college students another day, Sophie. Actually she doesn't; she was only there for this week as part of her school's work experience requirement. Yesterday she brought in cupcakes to say thanks for the opportunity which gave her 7482o0758492 points in my book. Cake could probably end war if we took it seriously enough.

Anyway, I have the second of three papers that I and the other interns in the program have to write about our internships soon. The assignment is to create a project based on the journalistic aspects of the job. Going to be difficult seeing as how the company doesn't ever write/report anything whatsoever. Maybe I'll ask permission to follow the V&A Museum (one of our clients) while they shoot a documentary on British Art. I think they're going to say yes; if I make enough cupcakes they'll have no choice.

Poverty

One of my worst fears came true today. I have no money to my name. I’ve spent it all on clothes, food, local attractions, and crappy nightclubs. When the ATM made that horrible beeping sound as the screen said “insufficient funds” I felt a pang of guilt and panic. My parents and relatives have been pouring money into my bank account so I can have the time of my life and I’ve gone and spent it all like a madman. What’s worse is that I’ll have to keep asking for it. Eventually, the money on my tube card will run out, the food in the fridge will run out if it doesn’t go bad, and eventually I’ll have to pay to wash my clothes at the nearest laundry service. The walk back to my dorm was a blur of defeat and helplessness.

I blinked the panicked glaze from my eyes for a second and saw a homeless man sitting outside Whole Foods. That’s when it hit me: So THIS is why people have jobs! It’s all so clear now; if you don’t have a JOB, you’ll end up with nothing and your only form of shelter from rain will be your three-foot long toenails, and that’s only if you’re really flexible. I started thinking of ways that I could make money under the table. Then I remembered I’ll be working at my internship eight hours a day, five days a week. Would I be willing to break my visa contract and give up one of my days off for money? Considering my strong aversion to toenails, I’m definitely considering it.

So, a word to those who have yet to study abroad: conserve your money. Have fun, and get out there to see as much as you can, but don’t go crazy. It’s a bother to discipline yourself by choosing to sit some things out but it’s a worse feeling to not even have the choice at all. Ultimately, it’s not your money you’re spending; it’s your parents’, or guardians’ – the people who are actually making a living. This may not be the case for everyone, but who between the ages of 19 and 21 can afford the ridiculous amount of money it costs to study abroad? If you can, great, if you can’t, join the club, we call ourselves “The General Public” – we have jackets and meet every Tuesday for coffee and sponge cake.

For The Anxiously Separated

When I first got to England, I suffered from severe separation anxiety; you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to buy your favorite moisturizer for six weeks. It’s just cruel. I’ve also really been missing my friends and family. Being so far away from them all makes it seem like they either A) don’t exist, B) are in another universe, or C) have forgotten that I exist period. This pattern of thought goes back as far to my childhood. If you can believe it, it was far more dramatic back then, so at least I’m maturing slowly rather than not at all.

Any way, before I left the States, it didn’t dawn on me that I’ve never actually left home. I went off to school, sure, but if I wanted to visit home I just had to get in the car and drive for an hour. It was like I never left! I remember my first trip home after settling in on campus. I pulled into the driveway of my dad’s house around the beginning of September with one of my best friends from school, Caroline. He leaned out of the front door and said, “Is it Thanksgiving already?”

It had been less than a week since I said heartfelt goodbyes to my family before I came crawling back to them. As time went on I got better at not wanting my mommy and daddy, but I don’t think living an hour away from home was enough to prepare me for the big leap across the pond. In the last six weeks, my nights have been peppered with weird-ass dreams, the latest involving melting children. According to my roommates I’ve been doing a lot of “sleep-shouting” which has involved some key phrases such as “ONE TWO THREE FOUR! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” And, in the voice of Gollum, “More light… MORE LIGHT!” Some other time I was yelling so loudly that everyone in the kitchen could hear me. Luckily they’ve been patient with me and haven’t called an exorcist, much like I would have done twelve times by now were I in their shoes.

Needless to say, I’ve been missing home and it’s had a big enough affect to penetrate my subconscious mind. Mostly, the stress has manifested itself in a serious fear that everyone I know and love at home will die and I’ll have missed the last days of their lives. Extreme, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m a performer at heart and if I don’t dramatize at least one thing every other hour I’ll turn into super-dramatic Sam. And that ain’t pretty, it’s actually really obnoxious, so I’ve been informed. But there is a good ending. Last night whilst, obsessively trying to distract my brain from imagining my family dying in a velociraptor zombie apocalypse, I read about a thousand posts of an extremely funny blog called, Hyperbole and a Half. Within it I read about seeing love as “stretchy.”

I would be injured deeply if I lost someone near my heart, but Allie Brosh helped me find some light in the loss of a loved one. She writes about the five stages of grief and how throughout that process, you feel like your life has suffered a wound that will never heal. Trying to fill the void someone has left behind is wrong because it’s as if you are trying to replace that someone, so you can finally get on with your life. Brosh said there was a time after her pet rat, Isabelle, died, when she felt she would never love another pet the same way. But she said something else that emanated a beacon of light when I read it.

Love is wonderful in that it can never be wasted or used up. We can never replace the people or animals we have loved, but the love we feel for them can be expanded. I like to think of love as being stretchy. It is easy to feel guilty when you start to love a new pet - like somehow that means you love your old friend less. But when you think of love as being stretchy and able to expand, you can see that there will always be room for everything. You can love as much as you want.

I’m not, in any way, saying I can’t wait for everyone I care about to kick the bucket so I can get my love-stretch on, but I wanted to share it with you all because it brightened my spirits a great deal. Maybe when you’re feeling sad about how much it hurts to be away from the love of your life, your children, parents, best friends, and to know that even the dearest parts of life come to an end, you’ll be lifted like I was. Now if you’ll excuse me, Terry just put on “Country Grammar” and I have to get jiggy with it.

A big hug for you,

Sam

Every Day's a Struggle When You're Flat Captain

I'm beginning to understand why my mother felt the need to strike the fear of God in me in order to make me do my chores. Ever since I was granted the venerable role of Flat Captain, I've come to appreciate parents everywhere that don't resort to violence when their shit-head children disobey them. Okay, so my fellow residents aren't my children, but if I don't keep on their asses about keeping the kitchen clean, the flat will get fined, and that noise ain't goin' down.

I've held two meetings so far, each one focusing more or less on the same thing: Keep the kitchen clean so we don't get fined. Both meetings have been made in vein because the pile of dishes is growing into a small city of glass and ceramics - dirty glass and ceramics. For the life of me, I can't understand why these idiots don't wash their own dishes after they've finished stuffing their faces full of the food they just slopped all over the place. I'm pretty sure they all speak fluent English, but maybe others only understand moronese. I'll try and speak like a caveman or a gorilla the next time I hold a meeting.

My initial reaction to the dozens of dishes piling up on the counter was one of irrational violence. I imagined myself standing by the sink waiting for someone to not wash a dish after using it, and then striking a pressure point in their collar bone, rendering them partially paralyzed. Before the culprit's body repaired all of it's nerve damage, I'd have already duck-taped said culprit to the wall outside the kitchen door as a warning.

This is where I begin to appreciate the effort parents put in to raising their children without throwing them out of a window. It's frustrating enough to keep up with a bunch of young adults, never mind having to do it with a bunch of small children.

Before I went out to buy duct-tape and sign up for ninja classes, the rational side of my brain spoke up and convinced me to leave a stern note on top of the dishes instead. It read...

Dear Faraday Residents,

I've noticed that the pile of dishes has grown into a god-damned castle and I cannot ignore it. You are not infants, so wash your dishes EVERY. TIME. YOU. USE. THEM. I'm keeping an eye out and if I notice you left a dish dirty, I will find you and punch you in the throat.

Love,

Sam

Minutes after taping this to the highest tower on the scummiest plate of dish city, I became wary of what consequences awaited me if the cleaning ladies read it. I'm not sure what the punishment is for threatening to end someone's life via cobra-strike to the jugular, but I can't imagine it's soft. I went to my friend, Trish, and asked her opinion. Not surprisingly, she said it was good up until the throat punchy part. Damn. My fears were confirmed and now I had to think of a new note to leave.

Maybe it would go something like this,

CLEAN YOUR DISHES OR THE BRITISH POOP DEMON WILL EAT YOUUUUU!

LIKE THIIIIIIS!!!!!

But then I realized that NO one would believe something as outrageous as that. Although sometimes when I walk into my room after being away from it for a few hours, it sure SMELLS like the poop demon is very real and a force to be reckoned with. Thank God we got fabreeze.

Buh, I spent so much time creating a poop demon that I've grown tired of ruling my flat mate's lives with fear and intimidation. I think I'll just perch myself in the kitchen until August like a vulture so everyone knows I'm watching them. I wonder if they sell fake feathers at Tesco...

In other news I used the word "cheers" in actual conversation with a British person! YAY! I'M PRACTICALLY A NATIVE. Tomorrow I'll go apply to be knighted, I haven't written an application essay in a while but I bet it's just like riding a bike! YEUUUUHHHH KNIGHTHOOOD WHUSSUP, QUEEN?

Can you be American and be a knight? If no, then I'll just tell them that people cross over cultures all the time! I'm not Jewish but that doesn't stop me from loving the crap out of Passover! Seriously, Jewish cuisine is DUH-LISH-USS.

.... I never thought I'd start out a post with poop demons and end up at Passover. Oh the things we can think.

We're on break after a crazed, zombie inducing week of finals and most of my friends abandoned me to go to Spain for the next three days so expect more inane posts like this for the duration of that time span.

LAHVE,

sample

Mark

Wow, sorry I haven't been posting as regularly as possible. Life got into somewhat of a routine here and less exciting things happened. But who needs adventure to have fun?? There's plenty of crazy ass crap going on right here in my very dorm room. My roommates and I are practically our own little dysfunctional family now so I want to share them with you.

I have three roommates, Mark, Claude, and Terry. They're each very special in their own way and bring something special to the table and the speciality just blossoms all over the place all the freakin time. First, we will talk about Mark.

Mark has an uncanny ability to be nude when you least expect it, a skill I have grown to admire. His warning (if he chooses to give you one) is, "Hey, don't turn around." Unfortunately, I have yet to listen to him and have always turned around (Side note: Terry and Mark just informed me that "alwaysed" isn't a word. How special!). I have a growing fear that I will never learn to not turn around and will continue to sporadically see Mark's bare ass until August. I've seen it far too many times for us to not be going steady. Mark may be that kind of guy but I'm a gentleman.

Mark is special to me for a number of reasons beyond shamelessly donning his birthday suit, believe it or not. Mark is the reason I decided to study straight men. I'm learning their language, and slowly but surely I'm learning their ways. It was the night Mark had two of his friends over that I found myself in a plethora of stinking, wonderful testosterone - an anthropologists dream come true. I'm pretty sure the three of them were drunk, as it was a wednesday night with only ONE class scheduled for the next day. I have termed this kind of gathering a "bro-thering."

One of Mark's bros, Harry I believe was his name, stumbled over to me holding a laptop and asked what rank the girl on the screen deserved. At first I was scared, confused, and a little cold but Harry took notice of my inner turmoil and slurred, "Ish she a eight or a nynne?" I looked carefully, anxious I would offend the bro and said "7 1/2."

"Reallly?"

"Yes."

Harry seemed disappointed, Mark hollered from his bed, "He's been after this girl for four years." Four years?? I don't ever remember crushing on someone for more than two weeks without saying something. But alas, perhaps the way of the bro is different. Harry wasn't bad looking, and despite the drunken slurring, he seemed like a pretty stand up guy. He was three sheets to the wind and managed to keep his pants on in front people he'd just met, good enough for me. What was weirder was that he was gushing over this girl like a schoolgirl in front of a Zack Effron poster. He continued to show me pictures of this girl in various poses to try and improve my judgement of her.

"Wha' about thissone?"

"Eh."

"This onne?"

"Are her eyes looking in the same direction?"

"OKAY okay how 'bout THISS one??"

This continued for several minutes and after seeing the girl in about twenty pictures he showed me one in which she managed to pull of a hair bump flawlessly. I gave her an eight.

"YES!" Harry exclaimed. It was weird, I thought bros only talked about porn, alcohol and well, porn. But Harry not only facebook stalked another human being of feminine persuasion, but campaigned for her hotness. What was to come next? Silk pajamas and a pillow fight? I felt like I was in high school and the lines of gender began to blur once again...

But I spoke too soon. Moments later, Mark pulled out a sandwich and made a peculiar exchange with Terry, my second roommate. Terry sat up from his bed like a deer sensing poachers and walked over to Mark.

"Ya got a sandwich there?" He asked.

"Yeah, I got it from Pret, it's a (whatever the fuck it was)."

"I gotta be honest, that looks like a really good fuckin' sandwich."

"That it is my friend!"

"You still got a little way to go, enjoy."

... What the hell just happened? I've never seen so much mild enthusiasm for a sandwich in my life. I almost think it was a counter attack on Harry's sickeningly sentimental high school crush on facebook girl (I forgot her name .3 seconds after I was told it). Then I thought, why does this seem girly to me? Maybe I should help disband the theory of female dependency on men by reporting my experience with Harry. It turns out that no matter what gender you are, you'll probably go through a phase in which you oggle someone from afar because you haven't quite mustered up the courage to say "hi." In an attempt to will the heavens into forcing that person into your life, you'll galavant his or her facebook picture around to all of your friends, demanding they admit he or she is as hot as you think he or she is.

On another side note, Claude just went to sit down next to Mark and his face turned pale moments before he fled the room, gasping for air... I'm assuming Mark is the silent but deadly type. Oh sweet Jesus he just sat down across the table from me... Whoever reads this, tell my family I love them and that I never wanted to go like this.

Okay false alarm, I'm alive.

Now would be the time I tell you about Terry and Claude, but I want to gather more from them before I write shamelessly about them. I want to do their reputations justice, like I did with Mark. We have six more weeks here so I'm sure I won't let them down. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I'm done telling you all about Mark anyway. Whatever happens, I'll try to paint the picture the best I can.

Love you all,

Sam

What a Small Town in Ireland Will Give You

Galway. Land of beer, banjos and the best friends you never knew existed. This was our experience in Ireland. At least on the second night anyway. The first might as well have been in a Turkish back alleyway.

We landed in Shannon at around 8 p.m., 15 minutes after the last bus to Galway left, leaving us no choice but to split up and take two cabs. Five minutes off the plane and we were already down 40 euros. Fuck. To make things more depressing, we get to the hostel and had to dish out money for the room, and it was one of those moments where too many people have to figure out who owes what without anyone remotely skilled at math. After all that and a bag of chips, we ventured out into the Irish night.

We found a pub that resembled something from medieval times and waltzed in. Having just lived in a high end town in London for the past three weeks had me expecting a poop load of evil eyes from the locals but we were received in a much different manner. Something a small town like Galway will give you is welcome. Friendly, warm, boisterous welcome.

Thank God, because I've tried not being loud and obnoxious like the British expect me to be, and well, I'm just not about to change that about myself. Sorry, England.

About two hours later I had chugged a Guinness and met an Irish girl named Sally, a.k.a. my Irish girlfriend. Our love thrived in vein because the first words from her to me were "Are you gay?" I nodded yes, to which she responded "FOCK! WHYE?" Something I love about the Irish is that they're not afraid to yell in the heartiest, jolliest way possible about everything. Sally had the talent of saying the word "fuck" and make it sound charming. She said jokingly to me, "Soon yull lern Sam, yool be straight and come back to me." I hope she finds someone awesome.

After my second Guinness I was starting to feel a little pregnant, so naturally, we went out to find food. Our options were extremely limited; it was either supermacs, a chain offering a plethora of every kind of fast food ever created or imagined by mankind, or a shitty little Turkish stand. In the spirit of staying Irish, we went to the Turkish place.

Outside the door there was a shady Turkish man smoking a cigarette just... looking at us. I was reminded of the time I had to pass a "roudy" horse at a farm, hesitant for fear of being bitten. Regardless, we were hungry so we committed and went in. I wasn't sure at first whether the "kebab" sign was a cover for an underground meth lab working for the Irish mafia, but the employees looked pretty wholesome. One of them even smiled at us while he hacked off hunks of meat from a spit. Long story short, we were stared at for a long time, and the food tasted like people.

The second day and night were a bit more exciting. We went to the Cliffs of Mohor, the most majestic and impressive natural wonders I've ever seen.

It's funny how I have yet to see anything like it in the states. Guess I need to travel more :) Unfortunately, we couldn't stay long because the door on our bus broke on the way up.

After the cliffs we got a chance to get some lunch and dinner. Then went out pub crawling. The first place we went to had a great folk music band that played for hours while we sat right next to them and enjoyed the jam session, swigging beer and mint liquor (the liquor is not an Irish thing, most of them were actually kind of confused by how green the liquid in our glasses was). It was at this pub where I met my next girlfriends. Catrina and Norma Jean. Another thing I love about Europe in general is that the gay and the straight all dress like they're gay so I fit in perfectly. But sadly I had to let them down, which didn't stop them from hugging and kissing me and well, all of us. The Irish are very comfortable and I love it all (up to a point, let's keep it PG, PG-13 at the most).

After a few more drinks and shots of Jameson, we all had a pretty good buzz on. Except for one of us. My friend Quincy had peaked earlier on in the night, and was sober, too sober to deal with us.

He made the mistake of getting a slice of pizza and eating it in front of us. I'm not sure if it was the Irish atmosphere, but a few of us smelt the food and turned into beasts.

My friend Kelsey's eyes rolled over and glazed black like a shark as she zombie charged Quincy. I followed suit, (neither knowing nor caring who's pizza it was) and took a huge bite, as did Catrina, my wife. The only way I can describe what this might have looked like is as if a scene from Dawn of the Dead was revived. Quincy threw his hands up, eyes wider than jet engines, and said, "I'm too sober for this, give me the key I'm leaving."

In our state of obliteration, we protested his departure in a less than strategic way. For some reason we thought wailing his name and latching onto his body like crazed koala bears would cause him to change his mind. It didn't, I'm pretty sure this only made him increase velocity away from us. One down.

After losing that battle, Catrina and Norma announced we were going to a different pub. Our posse of bombed zombies loudly made its way to the next location of merriment, but not before I tripped over one of those metal, stump-like things lining the sidewalk. Catrina, like a devoted wife should, rushed over to help me up. You know you're too drunk when an Irish person has to help you off the ground.

ANYway, the rest of pub crawling consisted of more shots, more Guinness and concluded with Footloose. Then we went to Supermacs, what we declined to go to on our first night, and probably pissed off every person in there. Oddly, there was a shit-ton of people for one in the morning. Must have something to do with the sun setting at eleven (so weird). This was where I bought a double bacon cheese burger, fries and a slice of pizza, a.k.a. the formula for my demise the following morning.

I've never been hung over for 48 hours straight, or this drunk ever in my life and I only include this information because no one died or lost their pants in the street. Responsibility might as well be my middle name.

I love Ireland. Here's a picture of me cheating death.

Electronic Music, Butt Spasms, and Men with Tentacles

To quickly start things off, I'll begin by telling you that we were disappointed with a club we went to last night. The floor was sticky, the rooms were crowded and the vibe was not something I think most Americans consider 'club like' People here don't dance, and the clubs usually only have dance music in the form of repetitive techno. I think if I hear one more DOOMP I'm going to maim the first person in arm's reach. So to avoid that disaster, we left the club and attempted to move on to a better place (no plan was made, we just started walking). On our journey outward, things got - unsurprisingly - quite amusing, to us at least. Maybe just me. DEFinitely not the locals (who saw that coming). The Brits don't seem to be very keen on meeting us when we travel in large groups. I'm guessing because we become a mass of loud, drunk, gyrating morons when we go out, and since we can never seem to accumulate less than a dozen of us when we go out (*cough*everynight*cough*) we have yet to meet british people and learn from their culture. Not that I need to. For some reason I don't feel like making friends that will be across the Atlantic Ocean when I come home - missing my friends and family right now is hard enough. I guess that's negative and lazy but whatever, I'm emotional. I probably won't have to worry about making that kind of connection however, because I'm sure we've convinced London's general population that we're all idiots. Something that didn't push our case last night whilst trekking out to find a better club, was when 20 of us played a real life game of frogger across the street to catch a bus. We made it across after screaming and flailing our way between speeding cars, but did NOT catch it (at this point some of us were straddling a fence separating us from the sidewalk... one of us couldn't get down). To our surprise, the bus stopped after a few feet of traffic. Those on the ground began to run, flail and scream again while the people stuck on the fence just... screamed and flailed. We missed the bus AGAIN and were stranded on the sidewalk having the poop judged out of us by bystanders. And as if we weren't stewing in enough of our own embarrassment already, one of our friends pinched a nerve in her hamstring. Where it gets embarrassing is when I didn't realize it was a pinched nerve but rather a pulled muscle in her ass. Already having had several shots of tequila I felt it necessary to announce to everyone in earshot, GUYS THIS IS SERIOUS, SHE PULLED HER BUTT. Whoops.

Later we ended up getting separated and I and two others found an awesome Turkish food stand still open at two a.m. and I had the best chicken sandwich ever. Thus was the conclusion of last night.

Tonight was more promising, as there was not as much annoying techno, evasive public transit, or sprained asses. To top it all off, this new club we discovered was covered in pink. What could go wrong? To our demise, we encountered a worser evil... Euro Trash. I'm not talking brightly colored, swishy windbreaker pants, I'm talking gross-ass men. Those that are actually trash for ACTING like trash, and for some reason, they were in force at the club we were so hopeful for. The men there were disgusting. They practically had tentacles creeping from their sleeves. A couple of rico suaves came up to us and Night at the Roxbury-ed a few of the girls. These ones didn't understand the word "no" so they returned for a second time as if the girls they were just pestering magically acquired a burning desire to have sex with a dick head. I ALMOST GOT IN A FIGHT. And by that I mean some guy grabbed my friend's wrist and I was like DON'T TOUCH HER and when he walked away I talked about how I was going to smack a bitch silly. It was intense. Thankfully I didn't unleash the ravenous beast from within upon the fool that thought he was allllllllllllllllllll that and a bag o' sass, but was really just a sack of tanning oil and excessive hair gel. Not all men here are like this, I assure you. I mean, I don't really know because the only interaction we've had with other brits was with creepy hornballs, but I'm sure that's just because the respectable ones are a little turned off by the sudden American invasion that we tend to unintentionally create when going out by the dozen. Regardless, I've definitely about had my fill of London night life. If electronic music is your thing, great, go nuts, glow stick your heart out, but it's not for me. It's probably a good thing, at least now without excessive clubbing, we'll have less opportunity to plant anti-american seeds all over the place. Till next time, my lovelies

Everything Reminds Me of Everything

Okay, this post will have nothing to do with any exciting adventures but rather some small things that pop into my head. I miss you all so much so I need to write to you about something.

Today my friend Chree and I went to do laundry... it cost me 10 pounds and her 12 pounds......................... my clothes better come out smelling like Jesus post reincarnation. The Scottish lady who works in our building, Margaret, that recommended it said "OOH thass a WEE BIT OF A DAMPER I'NT IT?" yes Margaret, it is.

Apparently she only gets charged 7 pounds. I think she gets a discount for not being American. We also can't get our laundry until tomorrow morning, so Chree, who gave in her towels, will have to blow-dry herself dry tomorrow morning. Hilarious.

In other domestic news, we've come to get used to the lack of food preservatives. It never occurred to me that I might see a fruit transform from a solid to a liquid in the course of three days but England's organic produce aisle has put an END TO THAT ANXIETY. Nothing lasts here unless it involves mayonnaise or cream cheese. Our refrigerator smells like a dying everything. Seriously, we open it for less than a second and the whole kitchen smells like a manic monday at the morgue. I'll have no eyebrows by August, no biggie.

Did you know that people don't care if you're gay here? David Cameron (Prime Minister) openly spoke about it in the Prime Minister's Questions. Can American please jump on this bandwagon? What the fuck! Also, they don't incorporate religion in their political business. Another thing that is so medieval that I can't believe the U.S. still says "God bless America." NOT ALL AMERICANS BELIEVE IN ONE GOD. We need to not place one religion over others, it isn't fair, it isn't respectful, and ultimately, it's thoughtless.

OKAY DEBBIE DOWNER STOP BRINGIN DOWN MA BUZZZZZZ. kay, so here are some happy things.

My friends and I have started our own club/clan/league of professional assassins/chapter of Oprah's Book Club called the Basement Arts Club a.k.a. BAC (our flat is in the basement) and since I'm flat captain (appointed first day of trip in case I didn't tell you) I am their leader (note to self: inform them that I am their leader). They call me cappy, so I figure that's good enough to grant me total control over their lives whilst abroad.

Random note: We had the most intense conversation about Harry Potter in the pub down the street last night. I would have suggested that we not do that in respect to the locals but the bartender didn't know what a mudslide was so they were sentenced to moronic Harry Potter conversation PLUS Twilight PLUS Disney.

AAAANNNNNNYYYYYYYYYYwho! Here are some quotes from my friends here that you couldn't make up on your own.

Me: Smoking is bad for you

Kelsey: I know, my whole family has lung cancer.

Chree: (double fisting cigarettes) YEAHHH, we got lung and skin cancer in mine, WHAT'S UP DEATH?

Kelsey: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAApricot

Katherine & Quincy in the middle of the street: THIS IS SOOOOO GB (Great Britain - if it's in code, they won't understand us)

Trish: Where's Gauri?

Me: IS SHE POOPING??

Trish: What?

Chree: freshmen are whores.

Kelsey: I was a microwave for Halloween last year.

Trish: Why must your red shorts be involved in all of our decisions?

Me: 'cause my hips don't lie?

Kelsey: What? You don know ma life.

Okay about 20 people just walked into our kitchen. Probably because the basement is where it's at. I honestly feel that we are the equivalent to the lower deck on the Titanic. Is it taboo to riverdance in the UK without knowing how? STAY TUNED AND WE'LL ALL FIND OUT TOGETHER! YAY!

Till next time,

xoxo gossip sams

Beautiful Sights and Loud Americans

Okay so I'm having trouble with uploading pictures on to this thing so I'm just going to have to explain most of it with few visuals, sorry!

Yesterday we went to Blenheim Palace and Oxford. Both very beautiful places - I have yet to see anything like it in the states. Granted, we're a much younger country than England. Blenheim Palace was where Winston Churchill was born, was where he lived, and is now the home of the Duke. We saw the room in which Madam Churchill birthed the prime minister to be and all I could think was... it must have sucked not having any labor drugs. Probably really messy too. Did you know that many women poop while giving birth? I can only imagine how hard it was to clean those fabulous bed sheets later. Did they have some kind of detergent back then? Whateva.

After the palace we went to Oxford. Very scenic, lots to do, lots of history. Authors like J.R. Tolkien and the dude that wrote The Golden Compass frequented a bar called Eagle and Child (England has the weirdest freaking bar names ever) which is one of the first things we saw upon entry.

My friend Trish studied here when she was in high school. She said it changed her life, so I'm assuming that all the huff and puff about it is pretty accurate. Oxford, according to our tour guide Linda, is extremely competitive and extremely hard to get into. They offered me a full ride when they saw how hipster I was with my black sweater and camera but I declined.

Trish also told us that Oxford is where HARRY POTTER WAS SHOT... sooooooooooo BASICALLY IN A NUTSHELL THESE LUCKY BASTARDS GO TO HOGWARTS... omg, I wanted to find a touristy thing where you could make your wand SO BAD but they didn't have that. I didn't ask because I'm pretty sure I've been pushing my luck with the obnoxious American thing.

However, that didn't stop all eight of us from barreling into a gift shop and getting the same sweatshirt, screaming LET'S TAKE A PICTURE WITH ALL OF US IN OUR SWEATSHIRTS HAAAHAHAHAHA OMG OXFORD YAAAAAAYYYYY! ... If you haven't guessed it, most of us haven't met any british people yet. I think they can smell us coming and just scatter.

Anywho, after we got our sweatshirts we got ice cream (it had been more than twenty minutes since we last ate). England has a very diverse population (I'm pretty sure, don't quote me on that but it SEEMS like there are 278402 different accents around every corner) so we don't have to rely on just fish and chips and calf liver for food (apparently they do calf liver here, that you CAN quote me on). But yeah, so I got a flavor called B52 which is described as bailey's and kalua. I was SO EXCITED (it had also been more than seven hours since we last drank so I stopped the scooper practically wrestling with the raspberry to scoop out my booze cream. It ended up tasting like a canoli so I barfed. Why do people like those things?

Then we wanted actual booze so we went to the oldest pub in Oxford called Turf Tavern. Very charming, and England-y :D. There my friends got the cheapest ale and it tasted like death and urine, so I didn't get it. Instead I got my FIRST EVER GUINNESS. It's a big deal. I had no idea however, that it would be like eating a loaf of bread without chewing, so the moral of that story is to never drink Guinness unless you either A) can handle it or B) are curious to know what being pregnant feels like.

I thought the end of our annoying American tour of Oxford had ended at the gift shop where we all lost our shit over sweatshirts but I was wrong... we found a giant empty table RIGHT NEXT to the bar that easily fit us all. Those poor Brits had no choice but to tolerate us until they got their drinks.

It wasn't bad at first, but then I told everyone how my teeth are close together so when I smile, you can see back to my molars... my friend Quincy responded loudly from across the table "You must have been an orthodontist's wet dream." ...

Everyone we were sitting with: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHHJAJFGJRAJJDFKSAHKFDSJAHAHAHAHA

The British people in the bar: ...

After one gaze from a disgruntled English woman that nearly disintegrated my soul, I raised my hands slightly so as to signal "Shut the fuck up."

We calmed, and for a whole ten minutes we didn't get one death stare. But then another friend of mine announced that she wanted a shot of tequila in honor of being at the oldest pub in Oxford (it was four in the afternoon), and I panicked a little. I told her no, bad idea, red alert, code red, black and blue but she wouldn't listen. Then Gauri tried to talk some sense in to her - I was relieved that another voice of reason joined in. However, my friend, determined to obtain hard liquor, said to Gauri, in something a little less than a shout, "I'm going to punch you in the balls."

Us: "..."

British: "..."

At this point I was sure the second revolutionary war was about to erupt. There were way too many raised eyebrows for them to not want us all dead or at least banished from Europe. Thankfully we got the hint and bolted after slamming down the rest of our drinks and high tailed it out of there. Guinness doesn't combine well with "slamming down" what with it being a meal in itself, and moving briskly out of arm's reach from the locals wasn't helping. Did I mention I already ate three times before this? I can't imagine what it feels like to almost give birth but I think I came as close as you can get without having a uterus.

Don't get me wrong, I love the guinness, I just executed my consumption poorly. The moral of this story is don't drink guinness if you're with a lot of Americans, talking about orthodontic perversions, or ball punching. I hope you all take this very important lesson to heart, and I'll be back with more wisdom soon.

Love ya.

P.S. here's a picture of the alley way you have to go down to get to the pub. I think they hid it on purpose.

Interesting Past Two Days

I said I would come back with more interesting stuff to tell you and I have delivered. Or will. Later in this post. :D

Trish and I went to "Tent City" (or so we've coined it) on Friday. Tent City is a rag tag tent camp set up in front of Parliament as a giant peaceful protest. I didn't talk to many people but I took a lot of pictures. We couldn't tell if these people were posers, or legitimately acting on behalf of their own beliefs. We probably could have found out if these folks were worth listening to if we actually talked to them but alas, I didn't feel brave enough yet. Eventually Trish and I finished our tour of the city and came upon a very interesting individual. Though we couldn't tell whether the protesters were serious about their business, this man certainly had his own opinion.

His name is Brian

Haw. He's an activist and according to him, he's on a peace campaign, not a peace protest. "Get the words right," were his words if I remember correctly. Haw has been camped out in front of Parliament for the past nine years, donned in white t-shirts covered in anti-war messages. This past week, he and one of his fellow "campaigners" were arrested for causing a ruckus when the Queen came to give a speech concerning England's government reformation. Trish and I were not expecting to see him there when we went there but somehow he got out of jail and is back at his post.

We were hesitant to approach him at first, but then we gathered our courage and walked up to him and two of his friends (who have been camping with him for some time - not sure how long, sorry). After he was done conversing with them he beckoned us over to talk. This was when I learned he was on a "peace campaign" and not a "peaceful protest" (... when I figure out the difference I'll let you know - don't hold your breath), and also when I learned he greatly resents the protesters behind him.

"They're all actors, fuckin' dressing up as hippies, drinking the drink and doing drugs," Haw said. Haw said the other protesters have tried to engage him in attempts to create a sense of unity, but he isn't having any of it. "They should fuck off home," he said. Later Haw spoke of a future in which thousands of people might get arrested for doing what he did to get him thrown in the slammer last week.

I guess the difference between a peaceful protest and peace campaign is this. Peaceful protesters will hold their signs, camp out in front of Parliament and have their beliefs be spoken through their presence and picket sign. Peace campaigners do just that but without the silence. Or so it would seem, seeing how Haw yelled his beliefs through the window of the Queen's carriage when she arrived at Parliament.

Haw is extremely leftist if you haven't gathered. One of his t-shirts even criticizes Obama, a president many liberals adore. As far as Haw is concerned, anyone involved in the continuation of the war is "evil." This concerned Trish and me. Obama may have his flaws, but to call someone evil seemed a bit overkill.

"Why are we over there? They never bombed us," Haw said. I was unsure of whether he was talking about England or the US, a question I should have asked, damn. Regardless, the first thought I had was a picture of the World Trade Center collapsing with innocent people inside. Even if England wasn't attacked by the Taliban or Al Quaeda, I'm fairly certain England and the U.S. have a relationship that entails protecting one another. When one is under fire, the other is likely to join the fight. We helped each other in WWII, so it's understandable that the English and American Armed Forces would be involved in the same conflict.

What are the consequences for quickly pulling out of a war that has been raging for years? Why are we fighting in the first place? Is fighting always immoral? When a mother's child is in danger from an attacker, would it be unreasonable to say she would protect her kin with her fists if she had to? Certainly not. I know the analogy probably doesn't spread to the war in Iraq, but the mindset of the British and American leaders might be likened to it. All I'm saying is there are two sides to everything, and extremism is a bold, precarious beam to balance on.

Haw said no member of parliament has tried speaking with him in the nine years he's been camped out across the street. I can only imagine why.

When a person resorts to extreme actions, such as making the front yard of Parliament his unofficial residence for nearly a decade and heckle the Queen of England from a tent, he makes it clear he is convinced the other side is wrong and that well, he might be crazy. That kind of reckless conviction is not what people running a country want to deal with. The people who are willing to talk and are worth talking to are those that understand that nothing is one-sided.

From what it seemed, Haw isn't interested in talking. But then again, I haven't been interviewing him for nine years. I could be totally wrong; he may have tried talking to the other protesters which he greatly resents, and he may have been patient some time ago. But now I don't see a man willing to include. I see someone who is self-righteous and for lack of a better word, nuts.

First Two Days of Class

Today was the second day of classes. It feels like the second week because they're four hours long lol. We've all actually only been to one class so far (elective is mon, tues, and core class is wed, thurs). My elective is The Foreign Correspondent, bum bum BAAAAAHHHHHHH! It's very interesting. So far we've talked most about war correspondence, not very pleasant.

Our professor has shown us two videos: one on war photojournalism and another on war reporting; probably two of the most depressing films I've ever seen. There are some seriously evil things that have gone on in the world I never even knew about. Apparently there was a civil war in Bosnia circa 1995. What?

In two days I've realized even more how important journalism is. Journalists aren't liked because they ask questions and expose the truth, and the truth for Eastern Europe during this time was was running home from the grocery store before getting shot in the streets.

Crazy. It's necessary to report and document these kinds of things because people deny that ethnic cleansing occurs. When someone says "Oh, that never happened," we can say "Yes it did I just told you about it, here's a picture, direct quote, and video clip." Journalism is the closest thing to a middle finger to any idiot denying the Holocaust, Rwanda Genocide or any other example of incredible human cruelty.

Anyway, before I get too serious, I'll complain about something else.

Money! Holy Christ on a cracker I've never seen money disappear so fast in my life. I know I've said that before but it's not something that loses its impact on my soul every time it happens. I took fifty pounds out this morning and now have 10 left. And what do I have to show for it? Some cheap-ass baklava and six bananas. (Baklava.... does not taste better because it's in Europe. Noted) and I have yet to think of a way to make my bananas last 11 weeks. If anyone has ideas, let me know, because we all know how much I love a good challenge.

I think I'm going to get hopelessly lost one of these days. I almost never know where I'm going and I'm causing my flat-mates anxiety:

"Where's Sam?"

"Oh he left to get some cheap-ass baklava and bananas."

"By himself?"

"Yeah, why?"

"..."

"OH DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE WE DONE"

"CALL THE POLICE SEND A CHOPPER HE'S PROBABLY IN GUAM BY NOW"

... If we were actually in Guam I would probably be dead. That or picked up by the Russian circus... I don't know much about Guam.

Sorry this post wasn't as eventful as others, we're going to cambridge on Saturday and then Oxford on Sunday. Look forward to that! Oxford is where Platform 9 and 3/4 is. For those of you living in misery, not knowing what Harry Potter is (MYA), it's the station at which Harry takes the train to Hogwarts. I know, calm down. We're all losing our minds too.

WELP. That's all for now. Miss ya, looking forward to having something more fun to write about.

peace and looooove y'all.

Break it Down at the Tate

Today we went to the Tate Modern. Trish, my flat-mate, and I met up with some of her friends from BU and checked out some really great art for FREE. I repeat: FREE. I'm pretty sure I started levitating because finding something for free in London is about as rare as immaculate conception.

What's immediately interesting about the Tate is that it used to be a factory before it was converted to a modern art museum. The outside does not look anything like an art museum needless to say. Here's a picture to the left!

I'll have pictures of the art up later because the internet here is SUHLOW

I had my first Fish and Chips while being in London! It was good. lol kind of like in America but it was thrilling nonetheless. Here it is :D

I went to Hyde Park for the first time and let me tell you. It's huge. Not as big as Central Park, but you could probably get lost much easier. Here are some pictures :)

I'm definitely homesick. I know it's normal but I can't help but think of home at the drop of a hat if I'm not physically and mentally involved in something. Fortunately there's a lot to do here and classes start tomorrow. Four. Hour. Classes.... It's good in that I will be occupied for a third of the day but I MIGHT GO INSANE I'M JUST SAYIN, FOUR HOURS OF LECTURE IS A LITTLE INTENSE ARE ALL SUMMER CLASSES LIKE THIS WHY WEREN'T WE WARNED DAMNIT B.U. YOU WIN AGAAAIINNNNNN.

Oh also, if you spend a jillion dollars on one of the events they offer you before you A) know anyone else on the program, B) Know your schedule for class you can't get a refund if you want to reschedule or cancel. Unless of course you happen to rethink your decision to spend 150 pounds on a weekend tour of Whales and sell your ticket to some other schmuck. Design flaw? I THINK SO.

In other news, it's currently hot as balls in our kitchen and my room smells a LIL' like a hamster cage and I'm not sure why. I love a good mystery.

I found an AMERICAN CORNER IN A GROCERY STORE. I almost wept. I entered a market filled with unpreserved deli meets and olives you can pick out of a barrel, longing for a taste of home. I'll admit, it was a little discouraging to realize I was turned off by the most natural food I've ever seen.

I walked to the back and stumbled upon a small miracle... Fluff. FLUFF, PEOPLE. And JIF peanut butter (they don't really do pb in Europe. I KNOW, tragic), and American cereals like Lucky Charms, Golden Grahams, and fruit snacks galore... This is what America is to the rest of the world: We like candy, especially for breakfast. Whatever I was in hog heaven. That is until I took a big ol' gander at the price tag.

six.......... pounds...........

which is like 9 American dollars. FAGGETABOUTIT. I haven't yet mastered the art of crapping out little golden coins and the $13,000 tuition is KIIIINNNNNDDD of looming over my shoulder like the shadow of death itself. So I passed on the fluff.

Any who, we're planning a trip to Scotland which will be different because we haven't seen rural Europe yet and I'm assuming that Scotland will be a magical land of fields, plaid kilts, bagpipes and Shrek. Too crass?

Okay seriously, I'm really excited about seeing the land from which my family hypothetically originated from. There's some confusion... some think we're from England, others from Ireland and others from Scotland. I think I ended up choosing Scotland out of a hat so we'll just go with it until further notice. YAAAY SCOTLAND!! I'm not too sure what to expect to be honest. Either way, I'm eager to discover it for myself. We hope to go in a couple of weeks :)

Okay last note, we walked across the foot bridge that was in Harry Potter! We were going to cast fake spells on everyone but I think we forgot... ha. Look for the pictures on facebook!

Much love,

Sam

Big Ben!
The Eye of London

Fun Fact: The Eye was actually built solely for the celebration of the new millennium in 2000 and was meant to come down after the new year. Many complained that it was an eyesore in the middle of such a historic part of London. However, it brought in so much tourism and therefore money, that it ended up staying as a permanent fixture. People now complain of the older buildings blocking their view of it.

Typical

Cause if you don't you'll lose a leg.

This is where we live: The Crofton on Queens Gate

This is the most expensive place I've ever been in ever.

A little of what we did today:

Woke up at 11 (because we didn't have to do anything for the first time, yaaaaay) and then went to Oxford Circus (again, not a real circus) for some shopping and lunch.

There's a place called Top Shop, a magical, wonderous store that has every freakin kind of shoe you could want. I've literally never seen so many men's shoes at once. I hate shoe shopping because I'm very picky about what I want and there never seems to be much of a choice in the Crystal Mall back home. Go figure. But here, it was almost overwhelming. My friend Trish and I just stood and watched British people go nuts for a while. We had to regain a proper amount of oxygen in our lungs.

I got a few things and ONLY a few things because life is expensive as crap here in the UK. A British professor apologized to us yesterday for how much money we'd be losing in the next few months... he wasn't kidding. The shopping and food is amazing because it costs SO MUCH. Here's the good news: you do get what you pay for. Usually. The poor service and small portions at the Indian restaurant we ate at yesterday was overpriced and the 3 pounds I accidentally spent on a strip show was well, probably underpriced for most people.

HOWever, I got some really nice things for not too much, and this very stylish juice and sandwich shop earned every pence from us. Flattened flax bread with homemade pesto sauce in every sandwich, and fresh fruit that they blend right in front of you. Very nice, Joe and The Juice. Well done. If I wasn't nearing poverty I would frequent your establishment on the daily.

In other news, I learned how to put photos on this thing so here they are! Just some shots of Kensington, Piccadilly Circus, The Thames, and other shhhtuff. They'll be in the blog after this one.

Take care, and have a jolly good day.

How I Unknowingly Paid to See a Strip-show in a Strange City

Orientation is over! Thank the lord! They seriously do not want us to sleep. It's all, "Go out tonight and meet Londoners!" (even thought I'm sure most of London can hear all our loud ass voices from every corner of the city and therefore do NOT want to meet us) and "Try the cider! It's the equivalent to seven beers!" and then it's "Oh, btw, get up at 7 a.m. for a lecture on politics."

Are ya kidding me?

Apparently British people can party until 3 and get up for work several hours later. Goodie.

Last night was especially interesting. First, we went to an Irish pub that had three floors, a live cover band that played pop music (AWESOME) and bartenders that have never heard of a malibu bay breeze.

At around 1 a.m., some other students and I were ready to go. We collected everyone from our group and headed out to the street. Then Dave, our head R.A. said, "Okay! Where to now?" and we were like... "home? please?" This was not good enough for Dave. 1 a.m. is when the party starts... apparently. "No! Let's go to heaven!" he exclaimed (I've nearly been to the actual heaven seeing how I keep forgetting to look RIGHT and not LEFT when crossing the street - London drivers will not stop for you. Maybe I should walk with a dog. Is that crass? Whatever.)

ANYway, Dave really wanted to go to Heaven. We protested at first "DAVE don't do this to us we have lecture at EIGHT FORTY-FIVE IN THE GODFORSAKEN MORNING"

"So?", he said. This went back and forth like this for a bit and twenty minutes later we're at a gay bar with the word HEAVEN in big letters over the doorway. Great.

By the time we got there I'm thinking "Okay, we're here, we might as well have a good time and not stress about getting up at the ass-crack of dawn. After a frisking we were let in for 3 pounds. Not bad. We walk into a huge place with a platform in the middle of the room and a lit up stage. Hundreds of London queers (that IS p.c. btw) were crowded in front of the stage so we couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Dave led me and four other friends of ours to the platform so we could get a better look. After, our six and a half-foot tall RA hoisted us up to the higher platform I saw a dozen men in tight underpants all in a row.

"Dave... what's goin on?" Too my horror, Dave said more or less exactly what I was afraid he was going to say.

"Oh is Porn Idol night," he replied in his quaint british accent as if we were having tea in the park.

"Ah."

Friggen Dave. I KNEW there was a reason he was so adamant about going. Before we knew it, some guy with a bad attitude eliminated all but two to a sudden death round. With one swish of his hand the music queued and in less than two minutes there were two naked men dancing around a giant pole. At this point my jaw dropped and I'm pondering whether or not I'm actually experiencing this. My other friends were more or less just as shocked. "Welcome to England, Sam!" Dave said.

Here's a little factoid about England partiers... they will dance as if there is an invisible forcefield around them and barely invade the space of anyone, but they will also strip naked for hundreds of people. There's no in between. You're either traveling at five miles per hour in a trolly beneath a laced parasol, or you're speeding down the wrong side of the road in a van full of porn stars. Would you like some hot sauce with your tequila?

I kid, I'm sure not all of London is like that, just on porn idol night. After the crowd chose their favorite pair of twigs and berries, they cleared the stage and the dancing commenced. Beyonce played and I practically forgot that we just saw a strip tease. The six of us danced a yankee booties off until Glee's version of "Don't Stop Believin" by Journey came on. If you want to find an American in Europe, play Journey. All of the Americans in the bar somehow gravitated to us in the middle of the floor and joined us in a very screamy rendition of the classic gone Gleek. The British looked on with horror. However, I think they secretly liked our freak-dancing. Get it.

Finally at 3 in the morning we got home and woke up four hours later for lecture. Then we got books I SPENT 12 POUNDS WHICH IS LIKE... IDK HOW MANY AMERICAN DOLLARS BUT WOOOAAAAAHHHHH CHEAP! And then we got lunch at this nice little cafe and I had a toasted focaccia sandwich with goat cheese, ham, and bruschetta, DUHlicious.

Then for dinner we made pasta with the floor family and I burnt my finger before setting the fire alarm off with burnt brownies. Cool.

We're going out for a drink tonight and then the homework starts tomorrow! Gah! Hyde park is going to be a great study lounge ;)

Love you all! Take care, I miss you so much.

Sams

Day/Night One

Okay so I had trouble with the internet which is why I didn't post for the first day in London, so I'll just do day one and two right now.

As we landed in Heathrow yesterday, I felt as though it was lunch time. It was in fact, 7:30 in the morning by the time I got in a cab on my way to the BU building. Time has literally been rewinded five hours for us, making the days seem longer. It's been two days and I feel like it's been five. Woof.

We're all exhausted, there's so much they have planned for us we don't have time to sleep! But it's okay, the other students are great. I feel like I've known some of them for much longer than a couple of days - which is either a result of being sleep deprived or just lucky.

Yesterday (day one) we got a tour of our town. We live in possibly the most expensive part of the second most expensive city in the world (or so I'm hearing), and it shows. Everything is pristine and calm. There are fantastic little cafe's everywhere and the shopping is so high end I get broke every time I walk by the Whole Foods store. Getting a phone is wonderfully cheap however. I bought a pay as you go phone for 20 pounds, which, is a godsend because I would surely get lost and end up in Whales if I didn't have a way to contact people with brains in their heads.

For the First night out we went to a bar called The Social. There was electronic music, men whom I could not tell were gay or straight, and possibly the most complicated whiskey sour I've ever had. After 30 minutes or so, everyone seemed to realize that a bunch of Americans were invading their bar and slowly trickled out. Oh well, on to Piccadilly!

Since everything was closed we didn't stay long in Piccadilly Circus (not a real circus). However we did get a gander at the Believe It Or Not Museum... it was pretty. Yay.

The next day was an early one. We were up at 8, fire drill at 9, orientation at 9 30 (my flat was late because we got coffee, whoops), then a boat ride at 2. We took a ferry up and down the River Thames. I saw Big Ben! -"Big Ben" actually refers to the 13 ton bell inside the tower, and not the tower itself.

We also got to see the London Eye (the giant ass ferris wheel) VERY cool, and there was a bunch of other stuff along the river that was pretty groovey in a far-out kind of way (a.k.a. the foot bridge that was featured in the latest Harry Potter movie. I'm practically famous.)

THEN my flatmates and I made dinner and it was delicious but I'm still jet lagged so I must get some sleep before I walk out into the middle of the street, completely unaware of that giant red double decker bus. Oh yes, by the way, if you don't look right before looking left when you cross the street, you're likely to get plowed by a bite-size beamer. The cars may be small, but I'm convinced the drivers here haven't discovered the brake pedal yet. Every day's an adventure.